Free Star Power by Zoey Dean

herself of the Rubybot energy after today’s lunchtime encounter, she had changed into a Kate Moss for Topshop minidress, black beret, and silver ankle-boots—all bought during a weekend jaunt to her father’s London hotel. As she appraised herself in the mirror, she randomly wondered if Finn Grace would think it was too brand name-y or not artsy enough. But then she was annoyed at herself for even thinking of him.
    Tonight was her debut at a new coffee shop (at least, it was new to Coco), called Café Pick Me Up—which, Erin assured her, always got a huge crowd of people who understood music. Unlike Finn. So what if he thought her mother ruined music? First of all, Cardammon’s songs were legendary, and okay, maybe they were a tad over-the-top, but what did that have to do with Coco anyway? She was indie. She was artsy. She was her own woman, hear her roar.
    Her phone buzzed with a text from Erin:
    IM DOWNSTAIRS, BEHIND SWAN POND.
    Coco spritzed herself with one final dash of Agent Provocateur and took dainty steps on the green carpet leading to her front door. But on her way out, she saw the door to her private dance studio was mysteriously open. Her mother’s voice floated down the hallway, along with laughter from strangers. What was going on? Cardammon only used the room for her yogalates classes in the mornings, and it was four o’clock in the afternoon.
    Curious, Coco peered inside the studio. There, in a floor-length purple sequin gown, was Cardammon, nibbling at a biscotti while two young stylists pinned her dress. It was strapless and tightightight to the knees, where it fanned out in a dramatic flourish. Her mother looked like a cross between Disco Barbie and Barney. A man who Coco recognized as her mom’s old choreographer was holding up a small DVD player with a screen for Cardammon to watch.
    Coco’s French bulldog, Madonna, was nuzzled against Cardammon’s foot in a matching purple dog dress. Seeing Coco, Madonna yapped loudly.
    â€œAnd there’s my beautiful daughter!” Cardammon pointed her half-eaten biscotti at Coco like a wand. Her face was coated in makeup so thick that Coco imagined writing her initials in the foundation. Suddenly, five pairs of eyes were staring at her. The choreographer looked Coco up and down, as if evaluating her potential.
    â€œBaby Cardammon!” cooed one of the stylists, a twentysomething blonde with hair down to her butt.
    â€œNo, luv, that’s Coco ,” Cardammon corrected. She waved away the stylists working on her train, and turned to her daughter. “Darling, I have a little surprise for you,” she said, stepping down from the platform. Behind her, her minions stood at attention. “Now, I know I said I was retired for good, but they’ve worn me down. I’m making a comeback!”
    Coco turned her head to the side, as though that might help her make sense of what she’d just heard. Her mother . . . was planning . . . a comeback ? Her eyes darted around the room. There were freestanding clothing racks scattered all over the dance studio, overflowing with outfit choices: silver and gold armor, leather pants with glittering laces down the legs, a tail of peacock feathers, a yellow feather boa, a gown that seemed to be made of lightbulbs. . . .
    â€œI’m back, darling!”
    Coco gulped. Cardammon was back all right. And tackier than ever.
    At Cardammon’s announcement, the stylists began applauding. One of them pushed a button on the remote and “Forever Blue,” her mom’s hit single from the ’90s, began playing over the studio’s sound system. “I was never convinced the timing was right,” Cardammon continued, waving her fingernails, which were also painted an iridescent purple. “But you know what they say: Forty is the new twenty. . . .”
    Coco glanced at the small screen her mom’s choreographer was holding up, and realized in horror that